


(don't) fight me

by dansunedisco



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Steve Rogers, College, Crushes, Gen, M/M, Miscommunication, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Partying, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 03:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7557520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Steve locks himself in the bathroom, grips the sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and stares at his reflection. “You are are fuck-up, Rogers,” he says, voice trembling with embarrassment and anger; and he really, really is, because he literally just screamed at Bucky Barnes to fuck him in a house full of douche-bro frat kids.</i>
</p><p>-</p><p>Steve, Bucky, pining, and some miscommunication, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(don't) fight me

**Author's Note:**

> for scar, who asked for: stucky + "i tried to say fuck off and fight me at the same time and i said fuck me"

Steve locks himself in the bathroom, grips the sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and stares at his reflection. “You are are fuck-up, Rogers,” he says, voice trembling with embarrassment and anger; and he really, really is, because he literally just screamed at Bucky Barnes to _fuck him_ in a house full of douche-bro frat kids. 

He isn’t even supposed to be here. Frat parties aren’t his thing, have never been his thing, but Sam Wilson invited him yesterday and then Natasha proceeded to drag him out once she heard, and now here he is. Steve Rogers: locked in a bathroom, sloppy drunk and raging out because his words got tangled together, and now all of _Psi Kappa Dickbag_ thought he wanted to get bent over by Bucky Barnes (which, no-- no, he does not). It’s just-- it’s so _silly_. He uses _fuck off_ and _fight me_ like filler words, so it really was inevitable that his two favorite phrases smushed together into “Fuck me, Barnes!” But tonight? Of all nights? Right when the bass thumped to a brief, silent pause so every single person could hear him scream it, loud and proud. 

He sighs, and a laughs a little, the ridiculous coil of tension in his stomach loosening along with the muscles in his shoulders, arms. It’s not like it really matters, he thinks. It’s two in the morning, everyone is at least a little drunk or high, and it’s not like he isn’t a joke to the typical Greek system anyway. He’s an art major, an avid LGBTQ advocate, openly bisexual, and regularly gets into fights with assholes like Brock Rumlow because, seriously, it’s the 21st fucking century, wearing a skirt doesn’t mean she’s _asking for it_ , god. He splashes some cold water on his face to calm down, and thinks better of drying off with any of the towels nearby. Instead, he lifts the corner of his t-shirt and dabs it against his skin. 

Someone knocks on the door then; asks, “You done in there yet?”

Steve’s stomach swoops. It’s Bucky. He’d recognize that voice anywhere; they share a couple classes, and, maybe, just maybe, that whole ‘he doesn’t wanna get bent over by Bucky Barnes’ thing is a lie. _Fuck_. “Give a guy a minute,” he mumbles back, because if he’s going to get his ass kicked in a bathroom, he’s damn well going to prepare himself. He splashes even more water on his face-- mutters out a slurred, “What even are you doing, Rogers?”-- and opens the door. Time to face the music.

The hallway is empty, save for Bucky darkening the doorway with two red solo cups pinched between his thumb and index finger. He gives Steve an unimpressed look, a little quirk of his full mouth, and leans against the doorjamb. “Are you really planning on fighting me,” he asks, “in my own fuckin’ bathroom?”

Steve doesn’t put his fists down. “I don’t know yet.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says, scrubs a hand down his face like he’s just _so done_ and crowds into the bathroom without warning. He kicks the door closed behind him and herds Steve onto the covered toilet. He pushes Steve’s protective hands down, and thrusts a cup at him. “Drink this.”

“What is this, poisoned?”

“Yeah, to the brim with iocane powder,” he replies. Steve goes to dump it into the tub, and Bucky huffs through his nose, like he’s part annoyed, part amused. He touches Steve’s wrist, keeps him from tipping the cup too far over. “It’s _water_ , you ass.”

Steve gives the cup an unsubtle sniff. It smells like water; looks like water, too. He shrugs before gulping it dutifully down.

“ _Thanks_ ,” Bucky says, when Steve’s done.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.” 

“No-- no, that was _me_ prompting _you_ to thank me, because I-- you know what, nevermind. How much did you drink tonight?”

“I don’t know; clearly enough to be hallucinating, because you’re in here, and giving me water instead of-- of--” He stops rambling, snaps his mouth shut with a clack, and proceeds to skate along that that horrifying knife edge of wanting desperately to be sober but still, sadly, being very far from it. He’s sitting on a toilet in a frat house, his shirt’s more than a little damp, and the guy he screamed at earlier is taking care of him. Now that he’s thinking about it, he doesn’t even remember what Bucky did to warrant his ire. “Fuck,” he says. He’s a _mess_. 

Bucky kneels down onto the bathmat, placing his hand carefully on the edge of the sink for balance instead of Steve’s knee. “That’s about right,” he says. “You need to throw up? I’m pretty good at holding hair back.”

Steve considers the offer, and feels his face flush at the thought of Bucky combing his fingers through his hair for-- reasons. Other than the result of him throwing up. He glances at Bucky’s hand, a scant few inches away, and swallows. He’s drunk, yes, but he doesn’t have the spins, and that’s the key. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

“‘Kay. Experience tells me you’re gonna have one helluva headache, pal.” Bucky stands. “The party’s gonna break up in a few… you can crash in my room ‘til then, if you want.”

He presses his lips together, every second passing between them making him feel like an even bigger asshole than before. “Why are you--? I mean, are you sure?”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah, sure. You’re drunk, Natasha’ll come collect you when she’s ready to go; no harm, no foul. Just try not to ralph on my stuff and we’ll be square.”

Steve lets himself be led out the bathroom, down the hall, and into a cramped room with two beds on opposite sides. Bucky ushers him towards one, and Steve crawls onto the mattress without question, flopping face down in the pillow with a tired moan. It smells faintly like sweat and aftershave, and he turns his head to look at Bucky. He’s already on the other bed, backed up against the wall with a laptop balanced on his crossed legs, the light from the screen illuminating his face. He has to admit... it’s a very nice face.

“Hey,” Steve says, doing his best to look apologetic when Bucky glances up at him.

“Yeah?”

He tries to recall _why_ he was mad at Bucky, but all he remembers is his matchstick temper. A thought, or maybe a feeling, pricks at the back of his neck, and he mumbles out an apology before his pride swallows it whole. He tacks on an, “I’m… I’m Steve, by the way.”

Bucky looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “I know who you are, Rogers. Just like you damn well know who I am. We had two classes together this semester alone.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “I didn’t think you noticed.” 

“Mm. You’re not easy to forget.”

“How so?”

“You got into a ‘verbal altercation’ with Pierce almost every week last year…”

He cracks a smile. _Of course_. “Well, my advisor couldn’t let me drop his class without a penalty, so.”

“So you argued with your professor in retaliation.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He scratches his cheek. “I got an A.”

Bucky grins. “You would, wouldn’t you? While the rest of us suffered...”

“It’s not like I _blew him_ under his desk for it,” he grumbles, and Bucky bursts into surprised laughter a stunned beat later. “I did all the reading,” he continues, still a little peeved at himself for bothering to work so hard in a shitty class like Pierce’s, “even the footnotes.” Still, seeing the burning hate on Pierce’s face when he realized Steve not only passed, but deserved near-full marks, almost made the effort worth it. Almost.

“You’re wild, you know that?” Bucky shakes his head, and the look on his face melts into something curious. “Okay… I gotta ask. Why the hell were you yelling at me tonight?”

His heart lurches. He hides his face--

Bucky tosses something at him. A yellow highlighter. “You yelled ‘fuck me, Barnes’. To my face. In front of everyone. I think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?” 

“I’m sure I had a reason,” he says, but-- did he really? He’s sure the circumstances will come back to him tomorrow morning, when he’s dying from his hangover, because total recall post-night of drinking is, according to Sam, his superpower. “But I really don’t remember right now.” 

Bucky frowns. “It’s just-- a weird thing to yell, is all.”

“I meant to say ‘fuck off’ and ‘fight me’,” he explains, because Bucky deserves at least that much, “but it came out as a bad portmanteau.” 

“All portmanteaus are bad.”

“Fair,” he agrees. “For what it’s worth-- you’re a good guy, Buck. For helping me out like this. And I’m beginning to realize I am the biggest asshole ever. You did me a real solid tonight, with all of this. I know that. I-- I really owe you, okay?”

Bucky mumbles something, but he says it too softly for Steve to hear. He hopes it’s forgiveness.

He licks his lips. He feels heavy, and a little numb; exhausted after a long week and a weird, shitty night. The music from downstairs is muffled but rhythmic, and he blinks against the grip of sleep trying to pull him down.

“Wake me up if I fall asleep, okay?” he asks, jaw cracking on a yawn he can’t fight off, and he tries to stare hard at the tiny picture frame on the nightstand so he doesn’t drift off. It’s a picture of Bucky; he’s noticeably younger, with shorter hair, and his arms are wrapped around a girl with the same blue eyes as him. Bucky looks _kind_ , like the type of person to take care of people who really didn’t deserve it, and Steve hopes, deliriously, that he can fix whatever he might’ve done wrong.

 

-

 

Steve falls asleep between one moment and the next, and Bucky shuts the lid of his laptop with a sigh. He considers waking the guy up like he asked, but-- what would Steve do? Walk home drunk? Probably. And then Bucky would have to walk him back, which would be annoying as fuck because he’s _tired_ , and really, it’s just easier to let Steve sleep in his bed. No harm, no foul-- just like he said.

Still, he sends Natasha a text message letting her know where Steve’s at, and follows it up with a message to Sam, too. He’s the reason Steve even came to the party in the first place, so Bucky figures the guy deserves a head’s up.

He knows he should go to bed-- Sam doesn’t care if Bucky crashes in his twin; they have a gentleman’s agreement about it, actually-- but he’s amped up. Steve Rogers is _in his bed_. Sleeping, sure; drooling, more than likely, but the fact still remains: he’s here, on his own accord, and they even had a conversation. The circumstances don’t really matter to Bucky, which is-- kind of sad, when he thinks about it. All he knows is that he was trying to kick Rumlow out of the party (no one invited him, but it’s easy to sneak in when most everyone’s inebriated) and then Steve was about ready to fight him in front of an audience.

The thing is, Bucky’s had a crush on Steve Rogers for a better part of the year. It started as a purely physical thing, at first. The guy’s gorgeous, and Bucky’s not ashamed to admit he can be a bit shallow. Then-- then he heard the guy _speak_. It started out as passive remarks in Pierce’s class, pointing out inconsistencies and blatant bullshit, until it escalated to the point Steve was asked to leave almost every class. Bucky fully expected to never see Steve again, every single time, but he kept coming back, and he kept arguing. Bucky likes that about him.

Steve starts to snore in his sleep, and Bucky smiles. Tomorrow. He’ll tell him tomorrow.


End file.
